Moments
by Ragnarok Dawn
Summary: A collection of one-shots. Moments in the lives of Carmilla and Laura, snapshots of heroics and cupcakes.
1. Good, For Goodness' Sake

"You invented the internet?!"

Laura's breathing heavily, bangs out of place and falling into her eyesight and a small stack of papers clutched in her hand. She door to her dorm, the ancient brass "307" shining brightly, is reverberating from its impact with the wall following her hasty entrance. She has that look in her eyes, the one she gets after hours of studying. It's a manic look, as though she's just solved some great mystery.

By contrast, her roommate is a picture of calm, collected and cool, lounging gracefully (that sort of poise should be criminal, Laura thinks with a huff) on her bed, with Laura's yellow pillow firmly planted in her lap. Carmilla's gaze slowly rises from the book she's currently skimming, one finger poised to flip the page, and her eyes meet Laura's. Dark irises take in the other girl's disheveled appearance and a smirk slowly finds its way onto her lips as one eyebrow quirks.

"I thought you decided you wouldn't be going back to the library," she observes, placing a bookmark between pages and closing the book softly before settling it on the pillow residing in her lap.

Laura's mouth opens to retort, then snaps shut, her brow furrowing in tired confusion at the deft sidestepping of her query before she sighs and holds up her other hand, showing a sheathed short sword hanging firmly in her grip.

"I brought protection!" She defends, shaking the sword as though to prove her point, "And besides, as much as I don't like to admit it, that library is just too good a resource to pass up, manticores in the religious fiction section aside. And!"

She stomps forward then, depositing the sword on her bed as she approaches Carmilla's. She halts just at the edge of her roommate's bed, slapping her stack of papers down on top of Carmilla's latest dry reading project.

"I known when you're trying to change the subject. Can't a girl just get a straight answer after a day of battling Lovecraftian horrors in the goddamn university library?"

Carmilla's smirk only intensifies as she takes in the sight before her. A snarky response is on her tongue, but is swallowed when she sees the imploring look being bored into her and instead she sighs (smirk still infuriatingly in place, Laura observes) and glances down at the papers in her lap. Splashed across the front in bold typeface is her name, or the name she was using in the last half of the 1970s. Her smirk, that infuriating up-quirk of her hips that Laura hates to love, intensifies (if that's even possible)

"Were you researching me?" Carmilla says, all silky ego and self-satisfaction.

Laura's face scrunches in frustration and she balls her fists up before letting out a frustrated "ugh" and stomping her foot. "Fine," she lets out, spinning around and grabbing her sword off her bed, "if you won't answer me, I'll just go back to the library and keep digging."

Carmilla rolls her eyes at her roommate-maybe-girlfriend's exasperation and sets the pillow (book and papers and all) aside before slinking to her feet and wrapping her arms around Laura's waist from behind, pulling the small girl against her.

"Hey, calm down," she finds herself saying, leaning her lips in close to the oddly attractive shell of Laura's ear, "I'd really rather I didn't have to come and rescue you again. Heroics are damaging to my reputation."

She loosens her grip slightly, stepping back toward the bed and tugging the brunette to follow her. It takes some arranging, but within moments Carmilla finds her back against the headboard, yellow pillow to her right and tiny brunette snuggled to her left. A smooth, pale hand is resting near her heart and gold-streaked brown strands are cascading down the arm she's using to hold Laura in place.

They're silent for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of closeness that they've only indulged in a few times since Carmilla's dramatic return from the jaws of true death.

"I didn't invent the internet, per se."

Carmilla's the first to break the silence, surprising both of them. She'd honestly planned on evading the question, and she's sure Laura intended to push until she either got an answer or made the snarky vampire poof away in frustration.

Laura's hand leaves her chest briefly, rummaging about on the pillow until her fingers close around the pages she'd brought with her.

" 'A Protocol for Packet Network Intercommunication'," she read aloud, " 'Authors Vint Cerf, Bob Kahn, Mircalla Karnstein'. And I'm not exactly an expert on internet history, but the paper sure makes it sound like you hand a hand in the internet as we know it."

Carmilla lets out a heavy breath, blowing a stray lock out of her eyes. She bites her lip in thought as she works out how much to reveal. And it's sometime between then and opening her mouth to answer that she realizes she's been caressing the other girl's arm with something resembling reverence and that, for the first time in a long time, she doesn't mind telling some of her more interesting stories.

"I was working on a degree in electical engineering at the time," she starts, though a sarcastic gasp cuts her off.

"You mean you haven't always been a philosopher?" Laura asks in mock surprise, craning her neck up to send the vampire her best impression of a Carmilla smirk.

"Do you want to hear this story or not, cupcake?"

Laura mimes zipping her lips before returning her head to the crook of Carmilla's shoulder, her hand resuming the small circles she's been drawing on Carmilla's clavicle.

"It was the summer before my scheduled Silas visit, and I was one paper away from graduating. Vint and Robert needed a third to verify the math and do some of the physical testing so they asked me to tag along. They really were the brains behind it. Compared to them, at least intellectually, I was just some kid who wanted another degree to hang on the wall."

She's quiet for a moment after that, remembering the feeling that even though her part had been minimal, she'd been a part of something big. She could count on one hand (okay, maybe two) the number of times she'd felt that.

"A part of me wishes I'd been able to stick around and see more of the work through. Who knows, maybe I wouldn't have picked up philosophy. Maybe I'd still be nerding it out in some lab in Silicon Valley."

The quiet following this is more final. Sharing, even this much, is such a foreign feeling for Carmilla. Like a weight being simultaneously lifted and dropped on her chest, and though she's always been so guarded, and the weight has always been comfortable, she knows that know that she's opened her mouth, she may not be able to stop.

"You said 'another degree'," comes the small, curious voice of her bedmate, "Just how many degrees do you have?"

Carmilla laughs then, because she knows the answer is going to sound liducrious, and she kind of can't wait to tell this story.

"Fourteen."

The reaction is instant as Laura bolts upright and looks down at her with shining eyes and an expression somewhere between disbelief and awe.

"Fourteen?" She breathes out, "That's… Well, impressive seems like too small a word."

Carmilla laughs lightly, almost a chuckle, and pulls the girl back into her.

"You've gotta remember, I've had a little over 300 years of study time, babe," Her mouth quirks a little, and the new nickname isn't lost on either of them. Nor is it particularly unpleasant. "Most of them are the broad subjects. Math, biology, chemistry. A couple doctorates from when I was feeling particularly ambitious."

"Doing one job for your whole life when you're mortal can be tedious, but fulfilling. You have to understand that my lifetime is made up of many mortal lives. I've been so many people, and so many things. In the end, Philosophy was the one thing I could turn inward, and keep to myself through my different lives. It helped keep me whole," she paused, looking down at the top of Laura's head. The kiss she places there, soft and tender, is a surprise to them both.

"So, you've been a doctor, and an engineer, and a philosopher. You've been a victim, and a villain, and a savior." Carmilla can hear the teasing lilt in Laura's increasingly sleepy voice, "Is there anything you haven't been?"

Carmilla's half sure that the question is meant in jest, and she gives a noncommittal hum in answer. Minutes later, she can feel the smaller girl relax against her, slipping into slumber. And though the day is just beginning for her, she knows Laura must be exhausted and so she lets her sleep, holding her book open with one hand while the other holds the small brunette against her. But no matter how hard she tries, she can't focus on the words as Laura's question rings in her skull.

In what seems like an instant, the sun is peeking through the curtains and she can feel a soft stirring beside her. As her bedmate slowly slips back into wakefulness, Carmilla finds that she's opening her mouth to answer.

"Good."

"Hmm?" Comes the groggy response as Laura sits up to face her, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Last night, before you fell asleep, you asked me if there's anything I haven't been."

Curiosity paints Laura's face as she motions for Carmilla to continue. So she sighs and sits up further, taking one of Laura's hands.

"You said it yourself: I've been the villain. Everything I've done has been for myself. For my own curiosity or greed or ego. Even Elle... I've always been a monster. And I've never really known anything else. So yes, there's something I've never been: good."

She smiles then, a real one, not one filled with mirth or self I satisfaction, and kisses the hand that she's holding before looking into Laura's eyes with an honesty that her roommate can honestly say she's never seen from the closed in vampire.

"But with you, because of you, I want to be."


	2. Superwoman

The idea of teaching Carmilla anything is almost so ludicrous as to be laughable.

And that's just what you do when she asks, eyes looking anywhere but yours and a slight, uncharacteristic blush coloring her cheeks. You know you shouldn't, this is another one of those brain-mouth filter moments you _swore_ you'd work on, but you can't help it. She's standing before you, this vision of eternal perfection (or so you think, anyway), this incredible being who has seen war and death and chaos, and has lived through a sizeable portion of modern history, who has this annoying and endearing propensity to just drop _truth bombs_ like they're all that run through her mind. Carmilla, who has probably forgotten more than you could ever learn.

"I want you to teach me how to fight," she'd muttered, unable to hold your gaze.

And so you'd laughed. And okay, definitely not the right response, but at first you're sure she must be joking. But then you'd noticed those eyes, so full of sincerity and underscored by...was that shame? So yeah, laughing was _definitely_ not the answer the woman before you had been looking for. The shame is so unfamiliar in her eyes that you immediately sober and reach for her hands, taking them in yours as you angle yourself into her line of vision. The shame melts then, melts to an intense determination that is _so much more_ like her, and bores into you such that the tiny dorm around you melts away.

"Why?" You question, softly, gently.

"Because, I-" She pauses, seeming to search for words. It's obvious she hadn't planned this, but she soldiers on anyway, "Because I couldn't save you. Or, I mean, I could. But I had to die to do it. And I should be able to protect you, a lady should be protecte-"

She stops again and steps away from you, throwing her hands up in frustration.

"That's not what I meant. Obviously you can protect yourself, I just…"

She sighs, her back still to you, lifting one (perfect, elegant) hand to her head, brushing stray locks away from her eyes.

"Carm, you don't have to explain, I can-"

"No, I need to get this out, but I'm trying to work out what I even mean. You'll have to excuse me, expressing myself without the platitudes and false wisdom of philosophers long dead is a new concept to me."

So you stand, hands clasped, waiting for her to sort herself out.

Because as weird as the request was, you're not opposed to the idea. Far from it. The idea of a sweaty, panting Carmilla in loose fitting combat clothes, body pressed against yours as she brings you to the floor is…

Well, quite frankly, it's sexy as hell.

You're snapped away from your mini-daydream when she turns back to you, eyes afire.

"In all my life, I've never learned to really fight. I've always been so strong that I didn't need it. And then I confronted Will, and my mother, and I realized just how weak I was. I was this mewling kitten compared to them. So I don't need to learn to protect you, that's obvious. You hurt Will more than I ever could with a single punch. But I think I need to learn this for me."

It might be the most you've ever heard her speak at once. And you can tell that this is something deeper, maybe more important than even what she's just told you could let on.

So you nod. You smile and take her hands again.

"Ok," you say.

/

The first thing you realize is just how goddamn _strong_ she is.

In the most raw, physical sense, Carmilla is enormously powerful. Her form, energized from a large helping of her favorite B Positive out of her gatorade bottle, is a rippling mass of lean muscle and fluid movement.

Which is good. Perfect, even, for what you need to teach her. Because as sexy as she is in sweats and a tight black sports bra, the moment you step in front of her, you enter instructor mode and you can tell that she hadn't been expecting what you're about to tell her.

"Krav Maga is not like most martial arts. This isn't a spiritual art like many of the others, not a way to find yourself."

She quirks her head at that, worrying her lower lip a little as she waits for you to continue.

"My dad had me instructed in this because he's a paranoid nut sometimes, in the best way, but he chose this because Krav Maga is about brutal efficiency. There's no hand holding, no mercy. It's about breaking your opponent before they can react. Killing, if necessary."

You step back a few feet, relishing the feel of the soft mat beneath your feet. You were so grateful to Danny for letting you use the Summer Society's sparring room, because teaching this in your dorm would have been an exercise in futility.

"So," you say, trying not to betray your nerves, "I want you to try to punch me."

Immediately she looks uncomfortable, like maybe suddenly this wasn't such a good idea. And it's probably not. You know you only got away from Will due to the element of surprise, and that in a real fight, even a Krav Maga master might have trouble against a vampire. But you've given your word you'd teach her, as best you could, so you harden your gaze and square your stance.

"Carmilla! Hit me!"

You've obviously put enough of a challenge in your voice, because she steels herself as well, launching forward and throwing a respectable hook. She's holding back, she must be, because you can follow her movements so she's not using her super speed. And thank god, cause otherwise you would have been hit.

Instead, your training kicks in. Smooth, deliberate movements flow from your body as you deflect her arm and pivot her body over your own, throwing her to the floor and using momentum to follow, rolling until you're atop her, pinning her in such a way that despite her strength, she can't get the leverage to move.

And she's looking up at you with a respect you've never seen before. Not that she doesn't respect you (you hope), but this is...different. Like maybe you're more...equal? No, that's not right, but you can't spend the time analyzing because she's smiling, this bright smile that is so rare it makes your chest hurt and makes you forget that you've just thrown her like a ragdoll.

"That was pretty fun, cupcake. Can we try that again?"

And you smirk. Cause, okay, maybe this won't be so bad.

/

The towel feels coarse and rough in your hands as you dry off from your shower. Somehow, three hours had flown by in that dojo, and by the end Carmilla was by no means an expert, but she could definitely fight off a mugger in the streets. She'd even wanted to continue, but you both were laying flat against the mat, panting as though you'd run a marathon, so you had called it for the day.

But you loved the way her eyes had shone with excitement when you promised to continue teaching her.

You step out into the dorm proper then, hair twisted up in the towel with a second wrapped around your chest, more against the cold than for modesty's sake. She's on your bed, like usual, a blanket wrapped tightly around her lower body as she holds a huge, ancient looking book in her lap.

"Whatcha reading, spooky?" You ask, teasingly, "Brushing up on another dead language?"

She laughs, eyes on the book still, but it sounds forced, and its then you notice the tear streak just drying against her cheek. And that's, well, that's alarming, cause you don't know if you've ever seen her _cry_, not for real. So you slip on a pair of pajamas as quickly as you can before settling down on the bed next to her, leaning back against the headboard.

On the page is a painting of a stern man, ancient and noble, with hair like the night and sharp features that remind you strongly of-

"Carm, is that your dad?"

She nods, a finger tracing the frame around the painting on the page.

"Earlier, when I was... Well, when I was making a fool of myself trying to explain my reasoning, I said that a lady needed to be protected. I didn't mean that you couldn't protect yourself, or that you shouldn't, but-"

She sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in.

"I was raised a Countess-in-Training. Every day of my life was regimented, structured. I was taught that a lady should learn needlepoint, child-rearing, perhaps a craft or an instrument to keep her occupied while the man went to war, or ran the house. I was never allowed to fight or learn to defend myself."

She closes the book, another, smaller sigh escaping her lips as she takes one of your hands and holds it on top of the book.

"Maman was the same. We were _Ladies_, she would say. Let the boys get their hands dirty, that was their way. Ours was a way of seduction, of soft caresses and whispered promises. Even in death, I was raised, taught, that women were the weaker, softer sex. And I mean, I'm pretty badass," she jokes, "but I guess I never shook that teaching."

"Carm, I-"

She cuts you off then, turning to look at you with something akin to pride.

"Seeing you fight off Will like that, when you knew he could snap you like a branch, was eye opening. You were like some kind of superwoman. In over 300 years, I'd never seen a human stand up to a Vampire like that, and to have it come from a woman, well," she laughs then, a throaty laugh from deep in her chest that makes your stomach bottom out in the best way, "it was pretty sexy. But more than that, it opened my eyes. It gave truth to something I've honestly been too cowardly to admit, that maybe Maman and Father were wrong. That we're just as strong as they are."

And you know that she feels like she's not getting this out right, you can see the frustration in her eyes, but it's okay because you _get it_, and it's a pretty heady thing, being able to experience this discovery of independence in a person you thought had learned all there was to know in the world.

And you could tell her all of this. But instead you kiss her, once softly, and once again much more intensely, before you pull back, and you can see the sparkle of your eyes reflected in hers.

"I think it's time we introduce you to my good friend Buffy."


End file.
